Part 10

It was his way to avoid needless discussions, and, having settled a thing and reached a decision, to dwell upon it no longer. It was otherwise with Constance. It required a distinct effort, as Susan said,—and she knew her sister well,—“for Conny to pick the burs off her mind.” He, too, was beginning to observe the persistency with which she dwelt upon unpleasant and, indeed, pleasant ideas.

The quiet of a windless night, with the unclouded brilliancy of the Southern heavens, was over them as they went into the garden. She slipped her hand into his, and they walked up and down the garden path. After a little she said: “I behaved like a bad child. You do not scold me, George.”

“I never shall. You have that within which scolds enough at need.”

“I sometimes doubt it.”

“Oh, no; never do that.”

“I envy you your patience, George. I wonder if ever I shall be like you. They say husband and wife do sometimes grow to be alike.”

“Or more and more unlike. We are both distinct characters, and both strong natures; we shall never grow into resemblance.”

She made no immediate reply, but after a little asked inconsequently: “Were you ever afraid, George?”

“Oh, often; always when going under fire. Why do you ask?”

“I have been afraid of late; I do not know why. It is like the fear in a dream. Is there such a thing as pure, causeless fear?”

“Yes,” he said; “some insane people have it, or so I have heard.”

“Well, I am not that,” she said, laughing. “I suppose it is a result of my long anxiety about you—my sense of danger ever since that dreadful night.”

“Well,” he returned, “we are, or are going to be, in quiet waters. See how glorious Orion is.”

She was not yet to be turned aside.

“Oh, I was quite hopeless about these wretched affairs, and you never are; and you are always patient with me and every one, even when things seem so utterly hopeless.”

“Ah, Constance:

“‘Where hope is none Patience is there a god.’”

“How you love to quiet me with a quotation! It is very clever. I never have an answer. Isn’t that Jupiter, George?” she said, looking up at the shining stars.

“Yes; I think it is. What a little part of it all we are; and yet we are. And, like the great rolling worlds overhead, we too are pulled by a hundred exterior forces and, like them, must keep our orbits steadily.”

“Thank you,” she said; “I accept the lesson. I will try; you know what is for me the one overruling force.”

“I know, dear; but there are others.”

“Is not love enough?”

“Yes; the love that is in and of all earthly love at its best.”

She walked on in silence, and then returned: “I understand you; but do you think I could ever love you more or better than I do?”

He hesitated, and then answered: “Will you not love me better as the years go on, and as, with God’s help, I shall be better worth the loving,—for, indeed, I mean to be?”

“Oh, yes, yes.”

“Then there will be reasons for love’s sweet increase.”

“I am trapped!” she cried, laughing. “You ought to be ashamed. Good night”; and kissing him, she went away, crying: “It was not fair; I shall be careful how I make admissions.”

XII

Susan announced next day at breakfast that her uncle would remain in his room, and desired to be alone. He wished Constance to know that the toast was burned, and that he had received a shock to a sensitive nervous system. “My dear Conny, he thinks them equally important. He wished me to say to you—and I do, dear, for he will ask me—I was to say that the least gratitude on your part would have saved him from this distressing incident.”

“Toast or nervous shock?” asked Constance.

“Don’t be cynical, dear,” said Susan; “toast, of course.”

Trescot declined any connection with the matter, and went away laughing.

On the following day Mr. Hood came down to breakfast. He was unusually silent, and refusing to say where he was going, went out alone. He lunched with General Averill, and returned late, having elaborately arranged his ideas for the legal consultation to take place that evening.

When Constance, mildly penitent as to methods because victorious, asked him to walk in the garden, he said he preferred his own society, and declined the rose she offered, with a well-worn classical quotation concerning the Greeks and their gifts.

When Susan reminded him of the need to rest before dinner, he said in a querulous tone that he was never left alone a moment, and he wished Susan would attend to her own affairs.

“My dear Conny,” said Susan on her return, “when Uncle Rufus pinches you or me, it is because some one whom he cannot pinch has been pinching him. I know his subdued look. Something disagreeable has happened. He will be sure to tell us all about it.”

At dinner he seemed to have recovered his good humor, and was in one of his talkative moods, and soon fulfilled Susan’s prediction. Apparently Constance was forgiven; indeed, his resentments rarely lasted long, and, as Susan said, the sun would have to hurry if it meant to go down upon his wrath.

“Well, Mr. Hood,” said Trescot, “we are waiting to hear what you think of St. Ann. You have been out all day.”

“I find it a remarkable place—a most remarkable place.”

“In what way, uncle?” said Constance.

“Oh, the people—the people.”

“But how remarkable?” asked Trescot. “In every way? They are very kindly, some of them cross, and no wonder; but still, among them there are many very pleasant, well-bred gentlefolks. I find a few of the older people really charming, with their flavor of Creole ways. Whom did you meet?”

“I met that rude animal, Greyhurst. He wanted me to come into his office for another talk. I declined. He is a brute.”

“But, really, I do not think he means to be ill-mannered or rude,” said Trescot. “He certainly is impulsive and short of temper.”

“That is very well, sir; but I conceive myself to be at least able to judge of manners. A brute, sir; a wild beast. I desire to be understood as stating categorically that he is a mannerless cur.”

“That seems definite. I am glad you refused to talk business.”

“I did.”

“Whom else did you see?” asked Susan, beginning to enjoy herself, with murmured comments to her sister about the spider and the fly.

“I met at the general’s Colonel Dudley, of General Stonewall Jackson’s staff. I found him interesting. When I expressed myself with regard to my convictions concerning State rights, we had a very agreeable conversation. We went away from Averill’s together, and he took me to their club. He was somewhat in doubt as to my argument in regard to the secession of the individual as justifying that of the State.”

“Isn’t that fine, Conny?” said Susan, in a whisper. “Why not divorce as an additional argument? Isn’t that a form of secession?”

Longing to pass on Susan’s contributions to her husband, Constance asked: “Whom did you meet there?”

“The accommodations are very remarkable, I believe,” said Trescot; “but I have never been inside of the club.”

“The colonel explained to me,” replied Hood, “why there were no front steps; they contemplate larger quarters. We went in at the back; in fact, through the kitchen.”

“Well,” said Susan, “that is rather novel; but it might be of use when one is going out to dine.”

“There appeared to be but one room, and a kind of bar at one end—quite genially provincial.”

“Delightful,” whispered Susan. “I am sure he told them so.”

“I hope they made you juleps, uncle,” said Constance “They are delicious.”

“They did. I was presented to several Confederate officers. Every one of them had a separate receipt for a mint-julep. The old black fellow seemed to know them all. I tried one—I think it was Colonel La Grange’s grandfather’s receipt. I regretted it; I was a little giddy after it. I drank to the memory of the Confederacy—a tribute—”

“Tithes of mint, Conny,” said Susan.

“Did you really do that, uncle?” said Constance.

“I did.”

“Did they like your toast?” asked Trescot, as he caught his wife’s expression of mirthful surprise.

“Like it? Yes, I think so; they did not say so. They appeared to me to be more reserved than I had expected to find them.”

“You must have enjoyed your visit,” remarked Susan, on the track of inquiry.

“Not altogether; one of them—a Captain Tracy—pointed out the photographs of Jefferson Davis and General Lee, and a bad copy of Peale’s Washington. Colonel Dudley asked me on which side I supposed Washington would have been had he lived in the time of our late war. I said he could have been on only one side.”

“That seems probable,” said Susan, with complete gravity; “but did they agree with you, uncle?”

“No; they did not. Colonel La Grange said Washington was a damned Federalist, and would have been with the North. He liked a strong central government.”

“That is fine,” exclaimed Trescot. “I like that.”

“I did not. It was disgusting, sir; and they all laughed. I was shocked. After that I ventured to sound some of them about the absurd feeling I understand to exist here in regard to the squatters.”

“I am sorry you did that,” said Trescot.

“And so was I,” said Hood, meekly. “They were, I may say, quite unpleasant.”

“But,” said Constance, “you told them, I hope, that you meant to buy up these claims.”

“I did not; I have reconsidered the matter.”

“But I have not,” said Trescot, decisively, pushing back his chair. “I hear the general.”

“Dear me!” said the old gentleman, “how very hasty everybody is!”

“I am in no hurry,” said Constance; “and Susan was never in a hurry in all her life. Take your wine in peace with us, uncle. George will send for you when he and Mr. Averill are ready.”

“General Averill,” corrected Mr. Hood, cracking a pecan-nut with an emphasizing snap.

“Major-general,” said Susan, with an upward lift of her eyebrows, and a touch of her sister’s foot.

“Yes, yes; thank you, my dear. There are so many generals here it is quite confusing. One is an editor, I understand.”

Constance was thus reminded of her desire that her uncle should see the “St. Ann Herald,” and, rising, said:

“I think, uncle, you may like to see the general-editor’s paper. I never fail to read it. Here it is”; and so saying, she laid it on the table and sat down to observe what would be the result of this innocent effort to instruct and amuse.

While Susan took up a book and Constance sat expectant, Mr. Hood adjusted his glasses and began to consider the small sheet before him. Some people read the dailies, some run over them as indexes of passing events. Mr. Hood studied them. For ten minutes he was absorbed. Constance watched him as a boy watches the bob of his fishing-line. At last, desiring an appreciative conspirator, she said: “Susan, did you bring me our old receipt-book?”

Susan, looking up, caught her eye. “Yes; shall I get it now?”

“No.” Having drawn Susan’s attention, a slight facial gesture indicated her desire that Susan should be the appreciative boy on the bank. Susan, instantly comprehending, began to observe her uncle.

Presently, and without looking up, he murmured: “Very remarkable.” It was a way he had when thus engaged. “Very satisfactory. The C. and St. A. is thinking of a line to the bend. Hum! I might assist that. Good gracious! That is interesting.”

He began to read aloud, while Constance and her sister exchanged smiles. His way of announcing what interested him in his paper failed altogether to consider the occupying interests of others. The habit is keenly felt in some family circles as a breakfast nuisance. “Cotton has gone up two cents. What’s this—what’s this?—‘We understand that Mr. Hood, the obstructive New England millionaire, is now in St. Ann at the residence of his niece. We trust that he will see the necessity of more lenient action in an impoverished community than he or his agent has hitherto shown.’”

He laid down the paper, and said: “What does the man mean? I must call on him to-morrow and explain.”

“I think George would prefer to do that himself, uncle. When he announces your generous intentions you will see what a fine apology there will be.”

“Among you all I seem to be very little considered. I wish you to understand that I am not a puppet for George Trescot to pull the wires.”

As neither woman replied, he returned to his study of the “St. Ann Herald,” and Susan, on a signal from Constance, to a study of his face.

Presently he looked up again.

“Good heavens!”

“What is it?” said Constance.

“What a country! what people! It is incredible, monstrous!”

“They are very pleasant people, uncle. I wish some of our own were as courteous and as gentle. We are harder, I fear. Of course there are all kinds, and some most undesirable. But what is it?”

“Most uncivilized! Listen to this: ‘An unfortunate rencontre occurred yesterday, on the levee, between Mr. James Lawton and Mr. Burpee. We regret to state that the former was wounded—it was supposed mortally. Mr. Burpee lost a finger, and a small negro boy was unlucky enough to be shot in the stomach. He is now dead. The affair was the final result of a long quarrel in regard to the title to a lot on the main street. On inquiry we learn that Mr. Lawton is less seriously wounded than had been supposed.’”

Hood looked up from the paper. “Does this kind of thing occur often, Constance?”

“Oh, now and then,” she replied lightly; “one gets used to it. You hear a shot, and then people, as they say, squander.”

“You had better buy a revolver, uncle,” said Susan, laughing.

He stood up, tottering a little. “It does not present itself to me, young women, as a matter for inconsiderate mirth. You seem to forget that I have property in this town, and that occurrences of this kind may affect its value.” He began to walk about the room, the paper in his hand, muttering to himself: “Most astounding! most barbarous!”

Both nieces preserved an amused silence.

“I think you stated that this kind of incident is common, Constance.”

“Rather, uncle.”

It appeared to Susan a definite but not very pleasing method of settling a business difficulty, and as she so expressed herself Trescot appeared and carried Mr. Hood away to the study, where was General Averill.

As he disappeared, Constance said: “Of course, dear, you saw that I meant to make it all as bad as I could.”

“You were quite right.”

“In fact, this kind of thing is very dreadful. Mr. Lawton is really a most agreeable and highly educated man, and has been very kind to George; but, oh, Susan, I have lived here in constant terror. I do not see how the women stand it. I had already heard of this last horror from George. Mr. Lawton is not badly hurt, but I fancied the news would be morally useful to uncle.”

“Is it so common, Conny?”

“No; but it has happened twice since we came—once in the country, and once on the main street. Two men were killed. This is the third of these agreeable incidents.”

“It seems very dreadful.”

“Yes, it is, it is; and, dear Susan, I _must_ tell you. I was told not to mention it, but I must. George was shot at by one of these squatters.” She told the story, but without naming Coffin.

“Oh, my poor Conny, why was I not told sooner? You ought not to stay here. You must not stay here.”

“Oh, I do not know. I hope not long, and it is not George’s fault. We are regarded, by all but a few old soldiers, as hard and cruel. It is uncle’s fault. There is not one thing that could not be settled easily with a little forbearance.”

“Knowing uncle as I do, I can readily believe you. I think, Conny, you sent him away in an excellent frame of mind. He will yield everything and go home. I suppose you told him of this awful thing. It was like him to conceal it.”

“Yes, I told him; and I wish he would go. I hate him!”

“Oh, Conny, not that.”

“I do. I hate him!”

Susan was right. To the amazement of Averill, Hood stood to his bargain with Constance, and agreed to give to the squatters land on the bluff at some distance from the water-line of the bend. He was even willing to pay at need. He authorized George to withdraw the remaining foreclosures and to cancel or lessen the past indebtedness for unpaid interest where that seemed best. When Averill put before him an agreement authorizing George to carry these arrangements into effect, he hesitated; but at last, seeing Averill smile, he signed the paper.

“It will have an excellent influence on public opinion,” said the general. “And what, now, about the case of the water-front at the bend?”

Trescot waited, watching Mr. Hood. He was satisfied with what he had won, and not unwilling to try a case as important as that of the ejectment suit brought by the heirs of the Baptiste family. And still he felt that if it were his own land he would have listened to any equitable form of settlement outside of the courts.

Here at last was a chance for the endless discussions which Hood enjoyed. His eyelids drew together and his face became eager as he said: “I should like to go into that matter fully, fully.”

“Let me state it,” said Trescot. “Just forty years ago, in 1830, your father bought land on the bluff from the Baptiste family. They retained the river-front below the bluff, and some of the bluff to eastward of it. Even then the shore had prospective value. The river has since then eaten away their beach, their frontage on the bluff, and some hundreds of feet of that which your father bought. You now own, therefore, the valuable river-frontage, if we can prove the sale to your father and define the bounds.”

“That seems simple,” said Hood.

“No,” said Averill; “it is not simple.”

“And why not?”

“When your people were here in the war we burned the cotton. The old town on the bluff took fire and was utterly destroyed; the records were burned. My own house on the bluff went, and with it your deeds. But all this you know as well as I do.”

“Yes; but the taxes.”

“Taxes go for little in land cases, and where are the receipts? I had them once, but they, too, are gone with the deeds. We have with difficulty acquired the surveyor’s books with a description of the lot and a rough map. His wife had luckily kept them, and will prove Hazewell’s writing. It is hardly enough, and juries are very uncertain.”

“It is damned rascality,” said Hood. “It is a pure swindle—blackmail.”

“It may be; but you must not say so—least of all to Mr. Greyhurst. He is employed to prosecute the Baptiste claim, and, if he wins, will have a large fee—perhaps a handsome share of the frontage. I think him over-eager—one of the men who become identified with their clients. He is very quick-tempered; but I do not think him a rascal. One has to be careful here in the use of language, Mr. Hood.”

“Oh, of course—certainly.” He was at once subdued, but said: “Then you advise me to settle with them, divide, do something?” He got up and walked about. “I don’t see my way to it. I won’t do it. No one ever doubted my title until the flood made it valuable. I shall think it over. It will require further consideration, and I am tired—I must beg to be excused. We can take it up again to-morrow.”

“But had you not better hear the rest of the evidence?” said Averill. Hood at once sat down, as eager as ever. “One word,” said Averill. “We are old friends. I ask you as a favor to let us offer to divide the front, and thus settle this business.”

“I will not do it. It is contrary to my sense of justice. I have yielded everything else. I was bullied by that man, and insulted in the club. I mean to have this case go to trial. Is that the whole of our case? You said there was more.”

“Yes,” said Trescot; “the general has said it is not all, and is aware that we can probably prove the bounds. We shall find the blazed trees, and that, with other evidence, ought to win the case.”

“Then, sir, you meant to conceal this and induce me to settle!”

Trescot flushed. “No; I meant to tell you; you interrupted us; but even now I beg of you to take the more generous view. I think we shall win; but it will go to another court and result in endless litigation.”

“I do not care.” Trescot’s last statement had made him obstinate. “I shall tell Mr. Greyhurst that I will listen to no compromise, or perhaps Trescot had better inform him of my decision.”

“But,” said Averill, “if we win, will you not then consider the unfortunate accident which has cost these people so dear, and arrange the matter?”

“No, sir, I will not. I mean to teach these people that—”

“What people?” said Averill, coldly.

“These—this town. I mean to have my rights.”

Averill was both indignant and hurt; but seeing that it was vain to reason with him, after an unpleasant talk they gave up. Trescot, who felt that he had done his duty, was not sorry to accept the situation. It was one to tempt a young and able lawyer. Before leaving the house, Averill told him that their case would come up in a week, which was rather sooner than Trescot desired.

Before going to bed, Mr. Hood announced that he intended to leave the next day. Constance was not grieved. She, however, urged him to stay; but he replied:

“No; I never change my mind—you know that; and I am not well”—which was true. “I want my home comforts, and I wish to escape being contradicted every minute.”

He went at noon the next day, taking Susan with him, and assured Constance, as he left, that he had never been more uncomfortable.

For an hour after leaving St. Ann he talked to Susan, with apparent satisfaction, of the ease with which his presence and capacity in affairs had settled these long-standing difficulties. He was at no pains to relate the various influential motives which had contributed to make him listen to reason. His decision to abide by the issues of the approaching trial presented itself to his mind as likely to afford a useful lesson to a community which he described as lawless.

He soon made it clear to Susan that his anger at Constance was of longer life than usual. “Most generally women degenerate when they marry. She is degenerating, I think. She was very impertinent to me.”

“What did she do?”

“Oh, no matter. It is over. I have been treated with great disrespect, Susan. I think I shall make a new will and leave you everything.”

“It would save trouble, uncle. I should at once divide with Conny.”

“No, you would not.”